Barracks (War of Hearts)

43- Add

"Shh," Himley's hushed voice cuts through the room. "We don't want her to wake up to this."

"You're right," Xavier agrees, his gaze fixed on my still form. I sense their collective concern, but I'm not ready to rouse from the abyss. Pain lingers, and waking feels like a terrible choice.

I surrender to the pull of slumber, my mind resisting. Their inquiries—Is she awake?—fade into the silence I crave. I drift, cocooned in dreams.

In one reverie, I find myself back home. Melissa stands before me, tears streaming down her face. It's the first time I've dreamed of her, and the ache is visceral. My eyes flutter open.

My face is dry, lips salt-crusted. I lie still, contemplating the dream. I miss her, yearn for my life in that other world—the mundane nightmares of bills and responsibilities. Time blurs, but approaching footsteps break the stillness. I recognize her gait without turning.

"You didn't want to return," she observes, settling beside me.

"It was peaceful there."

"I assured them it would work."

Confusion tugs at me, and I meet her eyes.

She reads my thoughts. "Xavier orchestrated it. His way of making amends."

So he was the one in my head. "Why?"

"He believed it would help you rest. You've endured so much..."

"Don't remind me." I halt her. Dwelling on it leads to thoughts of revenge—of something torn from me. I guard those thoughts like precious secrets.

"Apologies. We feared your awakening would take longer."

"No need to apologize. Had I not been weak, none of this would have transpired." Strength eludes me, but another chance awaits—a continuation of my journey.

"You needn't apologize for being human. I'm grateful I intervened," Himley reassures me.

I nod, then swing my legs over the bed's edge. Dizziness grips me, and Himley steadies me. "Thank you."

Outside the tent, Aldaire and Xavier approach, their expressions a mix of relief and concern.

"Tristan?" I inquire.

"He's informing Emma that you're safe," Aldaire replies. "She was frantic when you disappeared."

Their eyes track my every move as I wander toward the stream. The near-transformation still grips me—the taste of blood lingering in my mouth, the phantom touch of the knife's blade. I wash my face, tracing invisible scars on my neck and arms—each mark a testament to their hunger.

Emotions surge, overwhelming me. I collapse, knees to chest, and surrender to tears. The fear of death clings, a specter refusing to fade. Weakness, I chant internally. Had I been prepared, this macabre ritual wouldn't have ensnared me. My sobs echo, surely audible to the camp.

In a world like this, I muse, humanity alone won't suffice. I wipe my tears, but they flow unabated. How close was I to irrevocable change? My life teetered on the edge, and I was powerless.

The pale moon gazes down, serene yet indifferent.

Footsteps approach. Xavier materializes—a face etched with mourning. I laugh, surprising him.

"Where's the wake?" I quip.

His glare softens. "Good to see you haven't lost that spark."

"Haha," I reply, playfully punching his arm. "Had to reclaim it."